And so many children were missing that it bordered on an epidemic. About a dozen boys had disappeared since I arrived in July—only boys. Their photos were flashed on the Internet and updates were posted on special Web sites devoted to them, their solemn faces staring out at you, their shadows following you everywhere. I read about another missing Boy Scout—the third in the last year. This boy, too, was Robby’s age, and his witless, angelic face now graced the front page of the newspaper. But none of these children had been found. No bodies discovered in the ravine or in the concrete drainpipe; no remains in the dry creek bed or in the suspicious duffel bag tossed off the turnpike; nothing lying naked and defiled in the woods. These boys had vanished without a trace, and there were no hints that any of them was ever coming back. Investigators were on “frantic searches.” Parents of the missing boys were urged to appear on CNN and humanize their child in case the abductors were watching. Except for increasing ratings, these news conferences accomplished nothing beyond serving as a reminder of “the incidental malice of the universe” (courtesy of Time). This publicity was supposed to mobilize volunteers but people were giving up hope—so many boys were missing, people had simply become alienated and longed for a lesser horror to take this one’s place. There were candlelight vigils where families linked hands and lowered their heads, grief-stricken and praying, though to me they more often resembled participants in a séance. Various organizations proposed plaques to memorialize the lost. Students at Buckley (the private school Robby and Sarah attended) were encouraged to e-mail condolences to the bereaved parents. We were supposed to rehearse our children on the usual tired litany: don’t talk to strangers, ignore the well-dressed soft-spoken man looking for help to find his puppy; “Yell and Tell” and “Rehearse a Route” and “Avoid the Clown.” Distrust everybody was the message. Everywhere people heard the sound of children weeping. Silly Putty was used in school classes for squeezing out tension. We were advised to always keep recent photographs of our children on hand.
And now the missing Boy Scout inevitably provoked the flicker of worry I experienced every morning before Robby and Sarah went off to school, especially if the hangover was bad or I’d had too much coffee. This wide-awake nightmare lasted no more than thirty seconds, a rapid montage that nonetheless required a Klonopin: a rampage at the school, “I’m so scared” being whispered over the cell phone, what sounds like firecrackers popping off in the background, the ricocheting bullet that hurls the second-grader to the floor, the random firing in the library, the blood sprayed over an unfinished exam, the red pools of it forming on the linoleum, the desk spattered with viscera, a wounded teacher ushering dazed children out of the cafeteria, the custodian shot in the back, the girl murmuring “I think I’ve been hit” before she faints, the CNN vans arriving, the stuttering sheriff at the emergency press conference, the bulletins flashing on TV screens, the “concerned” anchorman offering updates, the helicopters hovering, the final moments when the gunman places the Magnum in his mouth, the overcrowded hospital emergency rooms and the gymnasiums transformed into makeshift morgues, the yellow crime tape ribboned around an entire playground—and then, in the aftermath: the .22 rifle missing from the stepfather’s cabinet, the journal recounting the boy’s rejection and despair, a boy who took the teasing hard, the boy who had nothing to lose, the Elavil that didn’t take hold or the bipolar disorder not detected, the book on witchcraft found beneath the bed, the X carved into his chest and the attempted suicide the month before, the broken hand from punching a wall, the nights lying in bed counting to a thousand, the pet rabbit found later that afternoon hanged from a hook in a small closet—and, finally, the closing images of the endless coverage: the flag at half-staff, the memorial services, the hundreds of bouquets and candles and toys that filled the steps leading up to the school, the bloody hand of a victim on the cover of Newsweek, the questions asked, the simple shrugs, the civil suits filed, the copycats, the reasons you quit praying. Still, the worst news comes out of your own child’s mouth: “But he was normal, Dad—he was just like me.”
Though I hadn’t realized it, Jayne had walked into the kitchen without saying anything to the sniffling blob wrapped in the sheet hunched over the table. She was standing over the stove waiting for a pot of water to boil (she was making oatmeal for the kids), her back to me. I tried to translate her body language and failed. I zoned out again on the countertop specifically designed for the placement of olive oil bottles. Victor soon shuffled in. The dog stared at me. You bore me, it was thinking. Go ahead—make my day, it was thinking.
“Why does that very rude golden retriever bark all night long?” I asked, glaring back at the dog.
“Maybe because he got freaked out by the sight of your nineteen-year-old students screwing in our garage,” Jayne said immediately, without turning around. “Maybe because Jay McInerney was skinny-dipping in our pool.”
“That doesn’t sound like . . . the Jayster,” I said tentatively.
“Someone had to haul him out after you disappeared,” she said. “With a net.”
“Who’s Annette?” I realized something. “Oh, what net?” I asked flippantly. “We don’t own a net.” Worried pause. “Do we?”
“I looked around but you were already passed out in the guest room.” She said this with the fake nonchalance she had been developing since I moved into the house.
I sighed. “I did not ‘pass out,’ Jayne. I was exhausted.”
“Why, Bret? Why were you so exhausted?” she asked, her voice now clenched.
I sipped my drink. “Well, that dog’s been doing its big barking routine and begging for attention the entire week. You know, honey, this happened to coincide with me starting my novel and so it’s extremely distracting and suspicious.”
“Yes, I know, Victor doesn’t want you to write another book,” Jayne said, turning the stove off and moving toward the sink. “I’m so with you on that one.”
“I never see that dog frolic,” I muttered. “He’s been depressed ever since I moved in and I never see him frolic.”
“Well, when you kicked him the other night—”
“Hey, he was trying to eat a stick of butter,” I exclaimed, sitting up. “He was going after that loaf of cornbread on the counter.”
“Why are we talking about the dog?” she snapped, finally facing me.
After a contained silence I sipped my juice again and cleared my throat.
“So, you wanna read me my rights?” I sighed.
“Why bother?” she said tightly, turning away. “You’re still in a coma.”
“I suppose we’ll be discussing this in couples counseling.”
She said nothing.
I decided to change the topic, hoping for a softer reaction. “So who was the guy who came as Patrick Bateman last night?” I asked. “The guy in the Armani suit with all the fake blood on it?”
“I have no idea. A student of yours? One of your legions of fans? Why do you care?”
“I . . . didn’t recognize him,” I murmured. “I thought—”
“You thought what? That I knew him?”
“Never mind.” I shut up and thought about things for a moment or two. “And did you ever figure out what happened in Sarah’s room?” I asked gently. “Because, Jayne, I think maybe she did it.” I paused for emphasis. “But she told me her doll did it—that bird thing, you know, the Terby I bought last summer—and, y’know, that’s pretty worrisome. And by the way, where was Marta when this so-called attack happened? I think that’s pretty—”
Jayne whirled toward me. “Why are you avoiding the fact that maybe one of your drunk, fucked-up students did it?”
“My students had better things to do last night than ransack our daughter’s—”
“Yeah, like fuck in our shower—I have no idea who they were—and snort coke off the countertop in the kitchen.” She was still glaring at me, hands on her hips.
A long pause in which I built to an outraged “People were in the k
itchen last night?!?”
“Yeah. People were doing drugs in the kitchen, Bret.” She recited this line in her hip-wary mode.
“Honey, look, drugs may have been done, but I’m sure they were consumed quietly and with discretion.” I paused helplessly.
“And I know you were doing them too.” Something caught in her throat, the sarcasm evaporated and she turned away from me again. She bowed her head. I noticed one hand was curled tightly into a fist. I could hear the erratic breathing that comes before tears.
“You mean I used to be doing them,” I said softly. “That sentence should be in the past tense.” I paused. “I’m up, aren’t I?”
“Barely,” she muttered. “You’re a wreck.”
“Look.” I made a useless gesture. “I’m sipping juice and scanning the papers.”
She suddenly composed herself. “Oh, forget it, forget it, forget it.”
“And why are you calling up Jay’s wife and asking—”
“I wouldn’t have to call Helen if you weren’t using again,” she said in a loud, anguished voice. She stopped and took a series of deep breaths to calm herself down. “I can’t do this now. Let’s just forget it.”
“That sounds reasonable,” I murmured gently, turning back to the papers. I attempted a long gulp from my glass but juice sloshed over the rim so I gave up and put it down on the table with a shaking hand.
Outraged by my casual tone, Jayne whirled around again. “It is illegal, Bret. Just because it was consumed in our house—”
“A private residence!” I shouted back.
“—doesn’t make it any more legal.”
“Well, it isn’t technically legal, but . . .”
She waited for me to finish the sentence. I chose not to.
“I didn’t do drugs last night, Jayne.”
“That’s a lie.” She broke down. “You’re lying to me, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
With great effort the ghost stood up and shuffled over to her. The ghost wrapped itself around her, and she let him. She was shaking, and between sobs was the trembling intake of uneven breaths.
“How about you believe me . . . and . . .”—I turned her around so we were facing each other and I stared at her pleadingly, my eyes sad and wistful—“just love me?”
There was a new silence in the kitchen. I glanced over at the dog as Jayne collapsed into me, hugging so tightly that I started to wheeze. Victor was staring at me. You bore me, it was thinking. You are a jerk, it was thinking. I glared until he lost interest, licked a paw and then turned away. He couldn’t stand the sight of me, and he knew that I knew it. And he liked that I knew. That’s what drove me crazy: the dog knew that I knew it hated me and liked it. When I looked back at Jayne, she was staring at me so hopefully that her expression almost bordered on madness and I wanted to let go first.
But then Jayne gently pushed me away and simply said, “We’re having dinner at the Allens’ on Sunday. I couldn’t get out of it.”
“That sounds like . . .” I gulped. “Fun. Really fun.”
After she left to get Robby my stomach erupted, and leaving my cocktail on the table I hurriedly ran into the closest bathroom and sat down on the toilet just as an explosive torrent of diarrhea hit the water. Gasping, I reached for the latest issue of Wallpaper and flipped through it while my stomach kept emptying itself. I stared at another sunken tub and then out the small bay window as Elsinore Lane began waking up, and I saw the boy who spent the night walk from our house—the pumpkins still dotting the path—to the house next to ours and realized it was Ashton Allen; he was momentarily so close to the window that I could read his T-shirt—KEEP STARING, I MIGHT DO A TRICK—and then a sparrow landed on the sill and I turned away. The bathroom was soon enveloped in an odor particular to the remnants of a drunken night—the smell of excrement and alcohol commingled in a rancid stench that forced me out of the room almost as quickly as I had rushed in.
When I hobbled back into the kitchen, Jayne was pouring hot water into ceramic bowls and Robby was standing at the table drinking from my glass, grimacing. “Mom, this orange juice tastes funny. Is there any Tropicana left?”
“Robby, hon, I don’t want you drinking Tropicana,” Jayne said. “Marta squeezed some fresh juice for you. It’s by the sink.”
“This is fresh juice,” he muttered.
I stood in the doorway until Robby put the glass down and moved over to the juicer. (Nonfresh juice was largely prohibited because it caused cavities and obesity.) As I made my way to the table Robby turned around and saw me and did the subtlest double take before casually moving over to his backpack, which he was in the process of rearranging. Robby still didn’t seem used to my presence, but I wasn’t used to his either. We were both scared and wary of each other, and I was the one who needed to make a connection, to mend us, but his reluctance—as loud and insistent as an anthem—seemed impossible to overcome. There was no way of winning him over. I had failed him utterly—his downward gaze whenever I entered a room reminded me of this. And yet I still resented the fact that he—not myself—lacked the courage to make that first move.
“Hey, kid,” I said, sitting down at the table and chugging the rest of the screwdriver. It went down sourly, and I shut my eyes until the alcohol’s warmth began coursing through my system, causing my eyelids to flutter open. Robby mumbled a response. It was enough. School lasted from 8:15 until 3:15, and various after-school programs often pushed their return to 5:15, so there was usually nine hours of peace. But then I realized tonight was trick-or-treating and that I had to be at the college by noon (a counseling day, but mostly an excuse to see Aimee Light) and then I had an appointment with my shrink, Dr. Kim, and somewhere during this ordeal a lot of Xanax was going to have to be ingested and a nap taken. The housekeeper walked in and said something to Jayne in Spanish. They had a little conversation I couldn’t possibly follow until Rosa nodded intensely and moved out of the kitchen.
Since it was Halloween and a free-dress day at school Robby was wearing a WHAT? ME WORRY? T-shirt and oversized cargo pants—his clothes were always too big, too baggy, and everything had a label on it. A pair of Rollerblades were slung over his shoulder, and he let Jayne know that he’d just downloaded something from a Buffy the Vampire Slayer Web site and he was wondering how to fit a soccer ball into a new Targus RakGear Kickflip backpack, which weighed an “acceptable” twenty-five pounds (the Nike BioKNX had caused “spinal aching” according to his physician). He was holding a magazine, GamePro, to read on the car ride to school, and was anxious about an oral quiz on the formation of waterfalls. As I flipped through the papers Robby complained about noises last night, after the party was over. But he was unsure where they were coming from—the attic, or maybe on the roof, but also definitely on the sides of the house. There were scratching sounds at his door, he said, and when he woke up this morning, his furniture had been rearranged, and he found three or four deep grooves on the bottom of his door (which he insisted he didn’t make), and when he touched the doorknob it was wet. “Someone slimed it,” he said, shuddering.
I looked up from the paper and saw Jayne glaring at me while she asked, “What do you mean, hon?”
But, as usual when Robby was asked for specifics, he drooped and went silent.
I reanimated myself and tried to think of a question to ask him that would not require any elaboration, but then Sarah and Marta wandered in. Sarah was wearing a frilly T-shirt with the word lingerie in spangly silver letters. And then Victor bounded up to her, relieved and wiggling with happiness, before moving to the glass wall and staring intently into the backyard while barking like mad, causing my head to explode.
“Sit, Victor! Heel. Heel!” I demanded. “Jeez, can’t somebody get that dog to mellow out?” I turned back to the papers but Sarah was leaning into me with the Christmas list she’d already made, a Pokémon stadium leading a long computerized column. I reminded her it was October (this didn’t register) and then started going down t
he list with her until I looked to Jayne for help, but she was on her cell phone and bagging the kids’ lunches (the sugar-free graham crackers, the bottles of Diet Snapple) while saying things like “No—the kids are booked solid.”
Sarah kept explaining to me what each item on the list meant to her until I casually interrupted. “How’s everything with Terby, honey?” I asked. (Had I really been so afraid of it last night? Everything seemed different now in the light of morning: bright, clean, sane.)
“Terby’s okay” is all she said, but it worked: she forgot about the Christmas list and moved over to finger paintings she’d made yesterday for show-and-tell and carefully started sliding them into a manila envelope. Robby was checking his palm pilot while swaggering around the kitchen—his way of acting tough.
I suddenly noticed a paperback of Lord of the Flies in the mass of school gear on the table and picked it up. Opening the cover I was shocked to find Sarah’s name handwritten on the first page. “Wait a minute,” I said. “I can’t believe they’re letting first-graders read this.”
Everyone—except Sarah—glanced at me.
“I don’t even understand this book now. Jeez, why don’t they just assign her Moby Dick? This is absurd. This is crazy!” I was waving the book at Jayne when I noticed Sarah staring at me with a confused expression. I bent toward her and said, in a calm, soothing, rational tone, “Honey, you don’t need to read this.”
Sarah glanced fearfully at her mother. “It’s on our reading list,” she said quietly.
Exasperated, I asked Robby to show me his curriculum.
“My what?” he asked, standing rigidly still.
“Your schedule, dummy.”
Robby tentatively rummaged through his backpack and pulled out a crumpled computerized list: Art History, Algebra 1, Science, Basic Probability, Phys Ed, Statistics, Nonfiction Literature, Social Studies and Conversational Spanish. I stared at the list dully until he sat down at the table and I handed it back to him. “This is insane,” I muttered. “It’s outrageous. Where are we sending them?”